Me: Gran! I've just coughed coffee everywhere! You can't text things like that! Or say that to your granddaughter!
Gran: Given that you'll bury your head in the sand until Christmas by which time he'll be over you and on top of someone else, I can offer you that. Marian's started doing those kinky sex toy parties. I'll order you a hare and send it to you.
Me: It's a rabbit, not a hare.
Gran: No, this is a hare. It's a bigger, faster version of a rabbit. Less tame.
Me: FFS, grandmother.
Gran: FFS – Frederick Frank Sawyer. He was an old boyfriend of mine. Why are you using his initials?
Me: It's an acronym – for f@ck's sake.
Gran: PMSL.
Gran: Seriously, grandchild, you need to sort out business other than your work, you know. And I like Jackson.
Me: I know. So, did I.
She didn't respond and I figured she'd gone out on one of her 'jaunts' with her friends from the village, probably lamenting the stupidity of her only grandchild. It was Wednesday and I still hadn't decided on what to do about the catastrophe I'd created. I clicked around on the computer, making a rough copy of a potential poster for Roger Davies' brief.
"Vanessa!" Alice peered into my office and hollered my name, as if I was on a different planet.
"Is there a fire?" I said, not moving. A fire would at least give me more time to not come up with suggestions to solve the Jackson Problem.
"Come into the reception."
I stood up, dragging my feet, completely in my own world until I saw what must have been a hundred red roses. "They're beautiful," I said, almost on autopilot. "I didn't know you were seeing anyone."
Josh stood there, arms folded, looking far more muscular than I'd noticed. When had he started wearing t-shirts that didn't advertise some obscure creepy band? "They're not for Alice," he said.
"There for you." Alice passed me the card.
For Vanessa.
I recognized the writing. My heart thudded and I almost dropped the card.
"I think I've thought of a new name for the company," I said, trying to completely ignore the bloom of red in the middle of reception. "Vanalish."
Neither of them responded. They just stared, Josh's arms still folded; Alice's hands on her hips.
"You need to put them in water. There's a vase big enough in the kitchen," Alice said, then both of them departed, as if they had practiced synchronizing their exits.
The roses were beautiful; as only red roses could be. I put them on the small table under the window in my office and took a picture. A week ago, I would have to text it to Jackson – this wasn't the first time he'd sent me flowers – but now I didn't know what was protocol, so I sent it to Sophie instead.
A minute later my phone rang. "Text him to say thank you. Or even better, put the photo on Instagram or Facebook with a smiley face and a heart."
"I'll think about it. Do you want to go for drinks after work? I'll see if Josh is free for your manscaping conversation," I said, changing the subject.
"Is Josh good looking?" she asked, the question loaded.
I thought for a moment. He was Josh, my grizzly, geeky head of creative. "I suppose so. He's really beefed up. And he's wearing different things which look better."
"Bring him. I'll see you at Luigi's." As she hung up my door opened and Alice entered again, an expression on her face that reminded me of my head teacher when caught six of us behind the school gym sampling Derbyshire's finest cannabis.
"What is it? Was the name really that bad?" Neither of them had given me their opinions yet.
"You have another delivery. And this one is definitely for sharing."
